Twice the flagons spoke without material result; but the third tore the gate from its fastenings, and even before the smoke had risen Sir Aymer de Lacy and Sir John de Bury hurled it back upon its hinges and dashed through—­to be brought up short by two men in complete armor, who attacked them furiously.

In the narrow passage, with the walls close on either side and the roof low over head, the fighting was hampered and awkward.  De Lacy and De Bury were in each other’s way and neither could swing a heavy blow; yet they pressed forward, sword and axe drawing fire as they rasped each other or scraped against the rough stones of the arch.

Meanwhile the men-at-arms led by Raynor Royk had poured across the bridge and were crowding close in the rear.

“Bear aside, my lords!” the veteran shouted high above the din of the clashing steel.  “We will sweep the way clean by a rush.”

But neither Knight gave heed.  Gradually De Lacy was driving his foe before him.  Step by step he forced him back, until presently they were free of the wall and into the outer bailey.  Then he first noticed that, though his opponent bore no device upon shield or hauberk nor crest upon helm, his armor was scarcely of the sort wont to be worn by retainers or simple men-at-arms; it was far too handsome in its lines and fashion and much too beautifully forged.  And as he parried the sword strokes, waiting for an opening when he could end the conflict by a crashing blow, he tried to distinguish the face behind the bars of the visor.  At first he had thought it was some retainer masquerading in one of Lord Darby’s suits of mail, but the sword play was manifestly that of no common soldier; it was too graceful and too skillful to have been learned amid the turmoil of the camp and battle.  And suddenly the great hope came that it was Darby himself—­who had eluded the King and, following after, had passed him at Pontefract.  Instantly the cool method of his fighting vanished; his fingers took a fresh and tighter grip; his battle-cry “Clare!  Clare!” rang out vengefully; and with all the fury of his wrongs and pent-up hate he sprang in close.  And as he swept his axe aloft its heavy head caught the other’s sword and tore it clean away, sending it far across the bailey where it fell with a clang.

To many, here would have been the conflict’s end; yet even as the hilt quit his fingers, the unknown plucked forth his heavy dagger and sprang straight at De Lacy.

Aymer met the attack by facing on his right heel swiftly to the left, and as the other, unable to recover himself, struck wildly at the air, the axe caught him full upon the shoulder, biting through gorget and gambeson and deep into the neck beneath.

Bending over his fallen foe, De Lacy cut the lacings of the helmet and drew it off—­then started back in wonder.

Instead of the dark curls and face of Roxford’s lord there were disclosed the tonsured head and pale features of the Abbot of Kirkstall.